


What Gets Left Behind

by Bosque



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dorian is a Good Friend, Gen, Post-Doom Upon All the World, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Redcliffe is mentioned, Solas is an Egg, Solas is gone, Solas's murals, Strained Friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 23:23:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6061972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bosque/pseuds/Bosque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When she stepped into the rotunda in the days after Corypheus's defeat and saw the empty chair, she could almost pretend it did happen. That she failed, just like she'd known she would. Like Corypheus had promised she would. That lie was easier to swallow instead of Leliana's assurance that he might still come back."<br/>With Corypheus gone, Inquisitor Lavellan is left to deal with what he leaves in his wake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Gets Left Behind

Even after Alexius was handed over to Fiona and her mages and word arrived saying Felix had died, the crumbling walls and heavy, dust-choked air in Skyhold still reminded Arana too much of Redcliffe, feverish eyes glowing the same bright red as the lyrium that stabbed out of the walls like broken teeth, and desperate whispers of, "I saw you die." For someone who'd grown up wandering through open plains and deep forests, bathed in light filtered between leaves, branches, or tall grasses, the sturdy, stone walls were too imposing and the countless rooms were too dark. It still felt like more of a prison and less of a stronghold.  
After Corypheus was gone, the thanks poured in, taking the form of lavish gifts and extravagant soirees from nobles and the cheers and smiles of the commoners. They all reminded her of the year that never happened but almost did, the future where they cursed her instead of clamoring for her favor.  
When she stepped into the rotunda in the days after Corypheus's defeat and saw the empty chair, she could almost pretend it did happen. That she failed, just like she'd known she would. Like Corypheus had promised she would. That lie was easier to swallow instead of Leliana's assurance that he might still come back. She didn't miss him, but his leaving still felt almost like betrayal.  
She forced her gaze up to the murals that adorned the wall. Spires of black and glittering gold scaled the walls alongside strokes of warm red, dashes of blue, and streaks of white. Painted wolves, elven sentinels, and other faceless figures stared back at her. The dull croaks of the ravens in the rookery overhead echoed through the rotunda as she reached out and brushed a splayed hand over the rough plaster, following the wall until she came to the last panel, its incompleteness glaring in stark contrast to the rest of the frescoes. The elf squinted harder at it. It looked like the beginnings of a wolf sketched on the plaster, standing over a dragon with a sword stabbing deep into its neck. When had Solas started it? Maybe it was done. Maybe this was all he intended, to leave her guessing. She wouldn't put it past him. Solas, his name, it meant pride in their- no, _her_ tongue _._ He'd always been quick to correct her. Solas. Pride. An unfortunate name, one that suited him too well. He'd always insisted that he wasn't like her, but there were still things they had grudgingly shared.  
She remembered going to the Exalted Plains, their people's- _my people's_ , she thought sharply- lost home. Before they'd traveled there, she'd imagined the fields of grass as a sunlit gold, where proud, ancient statues, her heritage, still stood, defiant under a blue sky. What they found were rebels and abandoned shem forts rising out of the hills like broken swords, commandeered by the undead. The grasses were stomped down, the statues hid behind bare, skeletal trees, and a gray sky laced with heavy clouds hung over it all, watching bitterly.  
They'd made camp after clearing Ghilan'nain's Grove. She abandoned the comfortable warmth of her bedroll and Bull's snoring an arm's length away, climbing out of their tent in the middle of the night to take her watch. Solas sat on the edge of the camp, firelight flashing in his eyes. She looked away and sat down close to the fire. A gurgut screeching deeper in the ruins made them both lift their heads, twisting in the direction of the call.  
"Sounds far off. Doubt he'll come looking for us," she offered, "not after what happened to his friends."  
The apostate nodded silently. They sat with the fire crackling between them for a moment before she cleared her throat.  
"Rest, Solas," she said, "I'll take watch."  
"You're disappointed," he said suddenly. "What were you expecting?"  
"In all the old stories-" The corners of his mouth started to tip into a frown. "If this is another lecture about clinging to the past-"  
"It is not." He waved a hand, narrowing his lips back into a firm, neutral line. "Please, continue."  
"In all the old stories, the Exalted Plains, Dirthavaren, it's beautiful. It's ours."  
"But that is not the case."  
"No."  
Solas nodded again.  
"A shame," he returned curtly, "for both of us."  
He stood, brushing off his leggings, and striding towards his tent.  
"Solas."  
The other elf stopped, poised near the flap of his tent. He looked back at her expectantly with one brow raised.  
"What's it like? In your dreams, I mean. Or the Fade, I guess it'd be." Fenedhis, she sounded like some stupid, fumbling child asking a hahren why the sky was blue. But his expression softened and the brow dropped back down.  
"It's as beautiful as you thought it would be."  
Then he slipped into his tent.  
She looked at the dark ruins towering over her and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to remember golden grasses and enduring stone faces, all watched over by a bright sky and-  
"Inquisitor?"  
Arana started, snatching her hand back from the wall, eyes snapping open again. When had she closed her eyes?  
Dorian's voice drifted over the railing from the second floor of the rotunda.  
"Ah, it is you. Excellent. I've been looking for you."  
Arana tilted her head back. Warm, gray eyes, instead of burning, red orbs, met hers. A smirk, not a grimace, was cocked on his lips.  
"And you found me. What do you need?"  
"I was going to ask if you cared for a drink. I hear Josephine's still trying to get rid of that port from the celebrations. Something about it being too dry. It'd be quite rude of us not to help our dear ambassador."  
"Why not? It's been that kind of day."

**Author's Note:**

> Dirthavaren- "the promise", elven term for the Exalted Plains  
> Fenedhis- an elvish swear  
> Hahren- "elder"


End file.
